The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter. Hazel Gaynor

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      Brooks has been on my mind, too. I tell her I’m sure he is safe on dry land, and silently hope I am right.

      Nine survivors in total are rescued and brought back to Longstone. Eight men and one woman. Five crew and four passengers. Of all those aboard the steamer when she’d set sail from Hull, it hardly seems anywhere near enough. Mam is pleased to discover that in addition to the Forfarshire’s carpenter, trimmer, and two firemen, we have also rescued Thomas Buchanan, a baker from London, and Jonathan Tickett, a cook from Hull. Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Tickett soon have fresh loaves baking and a stew bubbling over the fire. The lighthouse is so full of people I can hardly remember the quiet harmony the room usually holds. As always, dear Longstone plays its own part, somehow expanding to accommodate everyone. I take a moment in the stairwell to offer my gratitude to this place I am so proud to call home. I can imagine nowhere safer, or more welcoming, for the poor souls below.

      A little later, while they are seated around the fire, the five rescued crewmen talk in hushed voices, each recalling his own version of events, remembering moments of good fortune that had seen them at the front of the ship when it struck the rocks, or moments of great despair when they had been unable to help others. I am troubled to hear them debating their captain’s decision not to seek repairs in Tynemouth, shocked by their willingness to apportion blame and point the finger so soon after the tragedy. It doesn’t sit well with me, especially not with the captain believed lost to the sea and poor Sarah Dawson close beside them, foundering in her grief.

      I offer the men a tray of bread and cheese, putting it down on the table a little too roughly so that the plates clatter against each other. “I will leave you, gentlemen. You must have many things to discuss.” There is no smile on my lips. No softness to my voice.

      Realizing they have been overheard, the men lower their voices, shuffling their chairs closer together. Guilt clouds their faces as I step from the room. I am happy to leave them to their ill-judged discussions.

      By late morning the light is still that of evening and the many candles and lamps scattered about the place burn their wicks hungrily. After the initial melee of organization and the rush to tend to our guests’ needs, a strange calm falls over the lighthouse as the hours wear on. One of the crewmen takes up a lament, a haunting tune which we all join in to the best of our ability. Playing its part in the performance, the cacophony of the storm rages on outside. It is impossible to even contemplate making the journey to the mainland to seek help or much-needed supplies. As the waves crash relentlessly against the rocks and the wind howls at the windows, my thoughts turn repeatedly to Mrs. Dawson’s children, alone on Harker’s Rock. At a point when I think the storm has abated a little, I ask Father if he might consider returning for them.

      He shakes his head, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, pet. It is still too dangerous. We must pray for their souls. That is all we can do for them now.”

      “But I can’t get them from my mind, Father. How can I ever forget their still little bodies, or poor Mrs. Dawson’s suffering?”

      “I’m not sure you can, Grace. Nor that you should. We all must face our maker when the time comes and those of us left behind must somehow find the strength to carry on. Our duty as keeper of the light is to warn, but it is also to rescue and to offer a place of shelter for those in need. We did our best, Grace, and you showed tremendous courage. I will write a report for Trinity House and make a note in the Log, and we will trim the wicks and inspect the lenses and the light will turn as usual tonight, and the world will turn with it. That, my dear child, is what we must do—carry on. Today, we have seen the very worst of life, and the very best of it.”

      “Best?”

      He sees the surprise in my eyes. “Yes. The best. Look at these people—strangers—in our home, in our clothes, eating our food. Look at how they comfort and help each other. Look how much you care for Mrs. Dawson and her children, all of whom you’d never even heard of until a few hours ago. There will always be someone willing to save us, Grace. Even a stranger whose name we don’t know. That is the very best of humanity. That is what puts my mind at ease on a day like today.”

      His words, as always, fly to my heart, giving me the strength to keep going. Pushing all thoughts of tiredness from my mind, I tend to the fire, fill the kettle with water to heat for tinctures and tonics. As I work, the door blows open, the wind rushing inside, snuffing out lamps and sending yesterday’s newspaper skittering along the floor.

      The storm has brought unexpected visitors.

      FROM HER CHAIR beside the fire, Sarah Dawson observes the new arrivals with a strange detachment. Where were all these people when she was struggling to stay afloat? Where were they when her children were still alive? Too late, she wants to call out to them. You are all too late. But she says nothing, only wraps her arms around herself, rocking backward and forward, singing to herself of lavenders green and lavenders blue and muttering how sorry she is that she couldn’t tell Matilda about the lighthouse, and that James never got to use his uncle’s paintbrushes.

      Reaching up to scratch an itch at her throat, her fingers knock against her locket. With trembling hands, she unhooks the chain around her neck. The filigree clasp is already undone, the two sides of the locket as open as butterfly wings. Inside, there is nothing. No lock of pale barley. None of darkest coal dust. The sea has robbed her of the last piece of her children. Her past has been erased, her future stolen, her whole world shattered into fragments of what was and what might have been and what can never be again. Like Matilda’s rag doll, she folds in on herself, head to knees, her grief so all-consuming she cannot imagine how she will ever move on from this moment.

      Eventually she sleeps, her fingers unfurling like a summer rose until the locket falls into her lap and the piece of emerald sea glass Miss Darling had given to her drops from her hand and rolls a little way along the floor, where it waits patiently for some other hand to find it.

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       MATILDA

       Cobh, Ireland. May 1938

      AS I STEP forward to board the tender, I curl my fingers around the piece of lucky emerald sea glass I keep in my pocket. The pier creaks ominously beneath my feet, the noise tugging at my nerves like fingers worrying at a loose thread. A portly gentleman in front of me bends awkwardly to retrieve his dropped ticket. As I wait for him to move ahead I glance at my fellow passengers, wondering how many of them conceal shameful secrets beneath their boiled-wool coats and the stiffened brims of trilby hats. Behind me, Mrs. O’Driscoll chirps incessantly on about how wonderful America is, and how she hopes the rain will hold off for the departure, and Blessed Heart of God, would yer man ever hurry up. Already weary of her endless commentary, I’m thankful the crossing will only take five days.

      Our tender, reserved for those with tickets in Cabin or Tourist class, is half-empty as it slips its moorings and heads out into the harbor. I can feel Mother’s eyes burn into the back of my neck, demanding me to turn and wave to her one last time. I fix my eyes dead ahead and focus on the horizon, trying to ignore the rising sense of nausea in my stomach.

      “Departures always make me tearful,” Mrs. O’Driscoll clucks, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief as we move along the deck to find СКАЧАТЬ